


The Slipper As Pure As Gold

by Oh_wow



Category: Cinderella (1950), Cinderella (1997), Cinderella (2015), Cinderella (Fairy Tale), Cinderella - All Media Types
Genre: Death, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Literary References & Allusions, Literature, Major Original Character(s), Minor Original Character(s), Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), POV Alternating, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:35:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28751535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oh_wow/pseuds/Oh_wow
Summary: In this alternate universe, Ella (Cinderella), who works at the royal palace, ends up falling in love with the two princesses there. Just something light and fun that I like to work on when I'm feeling creative.
Relationships: Cinderella/Anastasia Tremaine (Disney), Cinderella/Drizella Tremaine (Disney)
Kudos: 1





	1. The First Act — Through Ella's Eyes

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

THE FOOL

Friday, March 20th, 1857

I am writing on the behest of Madame who thought it would be beneficial for me to journal my new experiences working in the royal palace. I've had no choice but to seek gainful employment now that I am eighteen years of age.

As of such, I have secured a position as a maid for the King and his family and I am thankful to everyone for the opportunity despite these anxieties of mine. The royal family displayed great generosity in assisting me in my plight. King Maximilian was even cordial on my arrival, though I have not been able to meet the royal children since then.

As for the castle, it is absolutely marvellous and truly a sight to behold. However, I am unaccustomed to such a stately place and the near silence haunts me — it brings back fears I have not felt since I was a child. On more than one occasion, I have felt the heavy weight of eyes upon me, but from where I am uncertain.

Tomorrow, the majordomo and the gentleman usher will give the new staff a tour of the palace and delegate all our duties, or so I've heard. I am hopeful, and I hope any failure in my work does not call forth an early end for my story.

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

WHEEL OF FORTUNE

People in orphanages turn sad awfully young, in that they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as earlier mentioned, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. Ella would know, for she was one of them. Life in the orphanage was far from comfortable for her first year there. The wind whistled through the wooden shutters in the windows and most people slept on benches or rough mattresses in the halls and corridors. As she grew, however, so did the building and soon more donations meant more renovations, and more renovations meant the place finally had well-furnished bedrooms and living rooms, heated by large open fires and lit by candles.

So one could imagine the look on Ella's face when she entered the chambers of the castle's servants 'below stairs' and found herself in a room much the same as that in her orphanage; along with a similar style bed, and a trunk for her clothes. The only noticeable difference was the red rug under her feet which looked considerably new and had motifs of deer around the rim. It was lovely, even though the bright colour contrasted with the royal blue walls. She heard the door creak open behind her.

"Hey there! Are you all settled in? We ought to go soon."

It was Angelina, whom she used to know from the orphanage and, it appeared, was also going to be sharing the room with. She was quite a striking character. Her hair, like vermillion, fell in tumbles over her shoulders, and freckles littered her slightly tanned skin. Though older than Ella by a year or so, she stood just a few inches shorter than the latter. Of course, she was still her senior with more experience working at that very castle so she straightened her back and gave a curt nod, as she had been taught to do prior the job by Madame. Angelina looked her over and then smiled so Ella took it that she had worn the standard servant's uniform correctly — everyone 'under stairs' wore the same thing, a long-sleeved white shirt with cuffs and gold trim, and a pair of red pants for the men or high-waisted skirt with black buttons for the women.

"Yes, I'm ready," She affirmed, moving to follow her out the door and down the corridor.

" _C'est bien_ ," Angelina said, walking briskly. "We wouldn't want to keep the usher waiting. He's a nice fellow but it's best not to get on his bad side. I've been there once before and, _malaka_ ," She made a face that made Ella smile, "...never again."

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

THE STAY

"The royal palace is much more than just a fortress. It is a home for the King, his family, and his followers..."

Ella gaped at everything she was seeing. Inside the castle walls, there was a magnificent hall, dozens of bed chambers, and a beautiful chapel where the walls were painted a creamy white and the windows made from colourful stained glass. She wondered if that was an indication of how important religion was to the King.

"At the heart of the castle," he continued, "is its tower, known as the Keep which contains a large room known as the Great Hall, the enclosed area between the inside of the wall and the Keep. On special occasions, magnificent banquets are held here, and I should expect everyone to be on their best behaviour."

_A royal banquet! Oh, my! I've always wanted to attend one of those and see what they were like,_ thought Ella.

"King Maximilian, his family, and important guests sit at the high table," the usher then gestured ahead to a table which was raised above the other diners and covered with a table cloth of fine linen.

As he led them around the back, she saw that the place had fish ponds, orchards, and vineyards, as well as gardens that supplied vegetables and herbs. Cattle, sheep, and pigs were kept on the surrounding farmland. Tall thick curtain walls surrounded the castle buildings like a strong shield. There were other things she noted too, like the fact that the kitchens were built away from the Keep in case they caught fire. It was quite amazing to see the rest of the kingdom on the front half of the palace in comparison to the large rolling planes of greenery followed by the forest on the other.

It was as though two different worlds had met with the castle at its centre.

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR

THE FIRST DREAM

That night, Ella dreamt of her earlier years in the orphanage, though her mind seemed adamant about one memory in particular:

_"The only thing missing from my life is luck. What about you?" Angelina once said at the orphanage back when Ella had just gotten to know her._

_"I don't know. I suppose I'm missing luck as well," She replied, leaning back into her bed to stare up at the colourful stars she had painted on the ceiling; she was quite fond of them. She heard Angelina on the carpet beside her sigh._

_"At least your_ **_mater_ ** _never left you adrift at sea on a piece of jetsam."_

_"Oh, dear," Ella propped herself up to look down at the redhead who was focused on her embroidery. "Is that what she did?"_

_Angie drew her lips into a thin, tight line and frowned, like she had just realized she had said something she did not mean to. Both of them were quiet for a moment and she laid back down. "My mother died of an illness," Ella said slowly after a while, "Then, my step-mother set our house on fire and ran away... My father didn't make it."_

_Soon, Angelina stopped embroidering. From the corner of her eye, she saw her turn her head to glance at Ella and open her mouth as if to say something, maybe "I'm sorry that happened to you" or "That wasn't your fault" — the thing all the adults she had come across so far seemed to always say — but then closed her mouth again._

_"It's rather dark in here," she said instead. "I'm going to the study. See you at dinner later."_

_After getting up from the carpet, she smoothened her skirt with one hand and held her embroidery things in the other, and left. Suddenly, the stars on Ella's ceiling did not seem so interesting anymore._

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE

THE STAR

Ella found herself in the library, sweeping as she had been told to do so. As a newer servant, no one trusted her enough to handle anything too important lest she messed something up. Thus, they had her do odd jobs: sweeping, mopping, dusting, wiping, and some laundry here and there. But today, she was to be in the library all day, and frankly, there was nowhere else she would rather be.

The library was two stories tall with a balcony wrapped around the top level. The big window on the top floor was propped half open. A rebel beam of sunlight pushed through the clouds, shining through the rain beads stuck to the screen and glass. And then that strange, golden rain light shone warm and pretty over each book. Ella wondered if the sun had missed the books, had waited as long as it possibly could to shine over those spines again. She knew how that felt, to love a story so much you did not just want to read it, you wanted to feel it.

As she turned a corner, she was surprised to see a sculpted figure with a burnished complexion sitting at the far end, turned slightly away from her. She could just about make out a pair of arched eyebrows looking down on sweeping eyelashes, quite seemingly intelligent in expression, flipping a page in her book. She had ginger hair like Angelina, though their hairstyles alone split them apart; her hair was tied in ringlets with a string of small pearls. In her light purple ensemble, she lounged in a plush armchair, reading quietly. Something about the air around her hinted to Ella that she frequented those bookshelves often, and earlier she had noticed that the books looked worn-out and well-read and loved on. A good library will never be too neat, or too dusty, because somebody will always be in it, taking books off the shelves and staying up late reading them. And the library in the palace was a good library indeed.

Ella did not know how long she spent gazing at the lady but she found herself unable to look away. Streams of sunlight spilt unevenly on her from a nearby window, revealing secret arrays of freckles on her pale skin, mesmerizing in their wake. She looked strangely familiar, down to the black ribbon choker around her neck. Where had she seen her before?

Slowly, it dawned on her: on her first day, she had passed a large portrait painting of a regal woman, dressed in yellow and gold, wearing the same black choker and the most magnificent crown atop her red hair. Although, in the portrait, she had green eyes.

_Then, that must be the late Queen Constantina,_ thought Ella _, which would make the lady on the lounger_ ** _Princess Anastasia_ **_herself, the Red Princess, the splitting image of the Queen._

And, admittedly, on that first day, Ella might have seen the princess as well, though the details were rough in her mind. As she had glanced back, in those few seconds, there was a glimpse of a woman standing there beside the portrait, gazing upward longingly. And her eyes _—_ they were a deep pool of restless gold, an ocean of hopeless grief.

Those same eyes were looking straight at her then, and with a startled jump, Ella scurried away to the opposite end of the library, heart hammering away in her chest.

* * *

CHAPTER SIX

THE PALACE PETS

"Oh, someone is always in charge of someone else here," said Angelina, as though it were merely a passing thought. "There is, at all Courts, a chain, which connects the Prince, or the Minister, with the Page of the back-stairs, or the Chambermaid. The King’s Wife, or Mistress, has an influence over him; a Lover has an influence over her; the Chambermaid, or the Valet de Chambre, has an influence over both; and so _ad infinitum."_

"I never knew that," said Ella, unpinning another sheet from the clothesline. Angelina had been a great help to her for the past week, always equipped with quips and tips about working in the palace. Such as the other day when she told her that it was an imperative rule for staff members to only walk on the sides of the hallways instead of down the middle of carpets so they would not wear the threads out or leave unnecessary footprints. The large carpets in the palace were, understandably, valuable antiques, so it made sense to Ella and she strictly adhered by this rule. In addition, since the carpets were just swept clean, they did not need any extra dirt brought in from staff shoes.

Another rule in the palace was that all pets of the royal family would eat food which had been cooked by the chefs, and their diets consisted of beef, chicken, lamb, fish, and rabbit which were alternated throughout the week. Sometimes, fresh game hunted by King Maximilian or Prince Kit would even be added to the menu. That was just something interesting for her to learn, though, for she was just a servant and not one of the chefs or one of the pets' personal butlers.

She knew the royal family had two dogs and four cats. Frankly, she was not aware they had so many cats. As for the two dogs, firstly, there was the big woolly otterhound Octavius, an oafish lovebug that liked to sit in people's laps despite weighing over a hundred pounds. All the staff had an affectionate nickname for him: _Gus,_ sometimes _Gus-Gus;_ it suited him well. Then, there was Jacques _—_ or _Jaq —_ the friendly, quick-witted german spaniel who loved to play with Octavius and was the more well-mannered of the two. They were best friends and never seen too far apart.

The four cats, however, seemed to be having a feud all of their own. There was Lucifer, a big fleecy tuxedo cat who had a penchant for clawing almost everyone save the royal family. She had heard of how grouchy and picky he could be, and this led to the other cats mostly staying out of his way. Speaking of which, there were also Mary the Abyssinian cat, Perla the Chausie, and Suzanne _—_ or _Suzy —_ the Somali cat. The trio loved to nap in the sunlit studies of the upper floors and they did not seem to mind a few pets from Ella whenever she saw them.

Growing up, Ella had always wanted a pet but was never allowed to due to her mother's allergies, so seeing the animals in the palace, for no matter how brief a moment, was like a balm to her heart every time.

* * *

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE SECOND DREAM

One night, in her dream, Ella heard the voice of a preacher calling her name, which she followed down a winding corridor to find a small dark room with a draft. When she turned on the lights, she traced the faith to two coffins placed side by side surrounded by hydrangeas — they were her parents' resting place; she recognized their initials in the wood. But she had trained herself to give up on the past for she often found herself frozen in time between hearses and caskets; her early life had been spent mostly dealing with death, after all. She stretched out a hand toward her mother's dark brown casket and, upon the first touch, was startled awake, feeling her back awfully prickled with sweat. She had not dreamt about her parents for a long time. _Why now?_ She had always told herself that one could not spend forever sitting and solving the mysteries of one's history; that part comes and goes, comes and goes. She had decided she simply could not give it the time of day. Otherwise, if she were too careless, it would undoubtedly eat her whole.

"Ella? _Est-ce que tu vas bien?_ "

It was the voice of dear Angelina, peering at her from the other side of the room. She was making her bed, it seemed. Was it morning already?

"Yes, yes," Ella sighed, dabbing her forehead with the end of her sleeve. "I'm alright, Angelina."

"Oh, no, please, call me Angie. Angelina doesn't suit me at all."

"Oh, of course."

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE SUN

The teakettle began to whistle. Before Ella could move, Angie had already stood up.

"Let me get that," she said.

It was odd seeing Angie again after so much time apart. Things had not been so smooth the first time they met at the orphanage when the two were still young. Alas, one cannot tell the precise moment when a friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is, at last, a drop which makes it run over; so in a series of kindnesses, there is at last one which makes the heart run over. And Angie, in all her help, made Ella grateful to consider her a friend. She did not have many of those since the fire.

_“Why is it," Ella said, one time, "I feel I've known you so many years?"_

_"Because I like you," Angie said, "and I don't want anything from you.”_

That memory made her smile every time she thought of it.

* * *

CHAPTER NINE

THE HANGED MAN

A few of the servants chatted about like parrots in the archway, whispering to one another.

"The death of family to the likes of liars of the seas, I hear."

"Pirates?"

One of them nodded somberly.

"Couldn't even give their youngest a proper funeral. His body was never found…"

" _Mon_ _Dieu_ … Still, he must have known no common language was spoken between them. And a pirate's rage is irrevocable. Why would he do such a thing?"

Curious, Ella asked, "Do what?"

All of them snapped to look at her as though she were an intruder, and her ears quickly felt hot. Angie was the only one who answered.

"Eloped with Captain Surcouf's only daughter, he did," She said, a hand on her hip. "Ran right to Greece, then straight into the captain's very own sword on the shores of Paros."

Ella gasped, despite herself, a hand flying over her mouth. She had heard of Captain Surcouf before, an infamous pirate known for causing trouble in French waters. _What a terrible way to die,_ she thought.

"And the daughter?"

"Heard she was stolen right back." The rest of the maids nodded along. 

"Pardon my asking but... who was this man?"

Angie's mouth twisted to a corner uneasily as the others gave each other odd sideways looks. Angie pulled her closer by the hand and said in a low tone, "...A childhood friend of the crown princess Drizella. His name was Marcel de Beaumont." Then, after sharing a serious look with Ella, she leaned away.

"Oh, dear…"

" _C'est une tragédie_ ," Angie said, averting her eyes. The chime of the evening bell echoed through the archways.

* * *

CHAPTER TEN

TEMPERANCE

Ella realized she had never once seen the famed crown princess Drizella, not that it mattered. In fact, she only realized this the moment she _did_ see her, and this first sight left her frozen on the spot. Wreathed in fragrant laurel, Princess Drizella descended the stairs past her. Her shoulder-length, dark-brown hair was rolled in locks at the back of her head and kept in place by a golden hairpin and a string of small emeralds. She had high cheekbones, a sharp nose, and her fair skin looked bright in the morning sun, shining as a reflection would on water. Her beauty was intimidating. And for this reason, she was always admired from afar, and no one ever came close. Ella had always heard about this and now she was experiencing it for herself.

Ella stepped down, eyes downcast, waist tilted in a bow, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet she saw her, like the sun, even without looking at all. And in there lied the irony that — despite her warmth — the princess possessed a February face, so full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness. Her Grace — mysterious and lucid, present and absent, warm and cold, everything opposite all at once. A spectacle of a person. She was both the mask and the wearer. 

_Don't knock it, Ella,_ she told herself, _that's the future Queen._

  
  


* * *

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE TOWER

The King had fallen sick, something about "an infection in the lung". And now everyone was waiting. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow crept in that petty pace from day to day. When Ella looked outside one day, she felt that there was a midsummer restlessness abroad, as plain as a pikestaff — though fresh water from the gasping sprinklers out before the gates made the lawn glitter like spring. However, soon, it would be autumn. Perhaps next week or the week after that: she could smell it in the air — summer smouldering.

Days passed by. Ella was pulling weeds when she looked up and found that the things of the garden were not concerned with their troubles. A blackbird ran across the rose-garden to the lawns in swift, short rushes, stopping now and again to stab at the earth with its yellow beak. A thrush, too, went about its business, and two stout little wagtails, following one another, and a little cluster of twittering sparrows. A woodpecker poised itself high in the air, silent and alone, and then spread its wings wide and swooped beyond the lawns to the woods. These things continued, and their worries and anxieties having no power to alter them. She realized everyone and everything, in some sort of way, small or significant, would be impersonal to each other, always.

Another week had come and gone. Ella threw open the linen curtains and, as expected, the window was streaked with rain. August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time. She did not understand why but, for her, August evenings were especially stricken with melancholy — as if the ghosts of all her past summers had come rushing to haunt her heart. It was the time of year, the time of day, for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things. Dusk, silence, iron chill. Something lonely in the bone which she could not explain. From then on, she knew the solid unlit sky would only supply rain. Rain tonight. Rain tomorrow. And so on and so forth.

Time was of the essence now. At that moment, Ella knew that somewhere above in the palace, King Maximilian was in his bed, surrounded by his three children and closest consociates, perhaps discussing his will, perhaps contemplating the future of the kingdom, perhaps telling his children "I love you", though all of this she would never know. Most of the servants had been carrying out their duties with little to no heart all day and Ella was no exception. Everyone loved the King. He was benevolent, magnanimous, and noble beyond compare. There was no other ruler like him.

So when she saw Princess Drizella standing before the large doors of the throne room later that evening, head down, hand frozen on the doorknob, unmoving, she knew that it was over. 

King Maximilian's reign was no more.

That night, it dawned on Ella the reality of the castle's pitiful audience. In their respective beds, five orphans, ten lost homes. How strange it was, everyone so similar yet so different indeed. Everyone with their own deep terrible lingering fears about themselves and the people they loved. _And despite it all,_ she thought, _we walk around, talk to people, eat, and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Should they not paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for a little while? We drive a carriage. We teach a class. How is it that no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise?_

Ella laid in restless sleep, riddled with unexplained melancholy. 

* * *

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE MOON

The September sky was downcast overhead. Ella managed to get a few hours of freedom to see someone important. Jeanne Amster, like Angie, was an old friend of hers. The three of them used to room together, though she never heard from her again after she got adopted. Madame had given her Jeanne's new address. On the way, she passed by a marketplace. There was someone pacing on the outskirts of it, an elderly lady in a worn-looking dress. She skittered about. _Has she lost something?_ Ella wondered, about to walk by her. With her drumming fingers and silvery hair, she appeared a nervous critter. When her eyes landed on Ella, she stopped. Ella saw that the shadows under the woman’s eyes cut deep. She stayed perfectly still for a moment, and then she swayed forward, grabbing a hold of the maiden's arm, her eyes going wide. Ella yelped.

"You," She exclaimed, pointing a bony trembling finger at her. "Why do you linger over things that hurt you?"

"...I beg your pardon?" Ella tried to wrangle her arm out of the other's hand but to no avail.

"You yearn for something; you know not what, but you know it is something you can never have. Your satisfaction is fleeting. Your time is fleeting. You are different, yet you do not know."

Shaken and confused, Ella jerked backwards, finally freeing her arm of the other's vice grip. The two stared at each other for a tense moment. Finally, Ella turned to leave.

"Ella."

She stopped, though she dared not meet the woman's eyes.

_How does she know my name?_

Behind her, the woman sighed heavily and then spoke.

"You are not special because you are different, my child. You are special despite your difference. You were not meant for this world, my sweet. You were meant for the stars. I can see it in your face. This world isn't yours..." 

She kept talking but Ella could not bear to hear any more. She clenched her shaking hands and walked briskly through the crowd, far away from the stranger, and heard a single parting phrase:

_My child, you're in the wrong story._

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE LOVERS

_This must be Jeanne's place,_ Ella thought. It was a big squarish frame house that looked like it had once been white, now decorated with cupola and spires and scrolled balconies in the telltale, heavily lightsome style of the seventies, set on what had once been the kingdom's most select street. Then, things like cotton gins came and encroached and obliterated even the most august names of that particular neighbourhood; it seemed only Jeanne's house was left, lifting its unwavering and coquettish assets above the cotton wagons and carriages. Ella walked through the gates past the fencing and stopped in front of the mahogany door. She wondered why it seemed so much like a shop front. The brass knocker was in the shape of an owl with its wings folded across its chest — she had never seen such a design before, and a beautiful one at that — and she knocked three, four times. She had to admit she was a tad nervous; she had not seen Jeanne in so many years.

After a moment, a stranger opened the door and Ella's heart jumped at the sight of her, suddenly worried that she had arrived at the wrong house. The blonde gazed at her, tall and sweet-faced and proud, her mouth curved in a shape that told the world that a smile loved to live there. Ella was just about to bow and apologize for the intrusion when—

"You must be Ella! Oh, you are such a precious sight. My Jeanne talks so much about you, don't you know? Come in, please!"

The lady smiled and held the door open for her, gesturing for her to enter. Ella thanked her and walked out the entry into the foyer, where various antiques were placed all around the room, most of them wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Among Apostle spoons and Bristol glass, faded silks, and light furniture, she caught her reflection in the polished brass savers and silver bowls.

"Do wait here for a moment. I'll go get Jeanne." The lady disappeared around the corner.

Ella sat in a nearby chair and looked around. Beside her, there was the foot of a vast staircase with a graceful bannister that curved up toward a soaring second floor. The polished wood floors had a large ornate red rug covering most of it. Prints of gentlemen riding to hounds decorated the walls, though the walls mainly consisted of high-arched windows, with sheer lace curtains bordered by heavy burgundy drapes. Streams of sunlight poured out those windows.

"Ella?"

She looked up to see a familiar smiling face. It was Jeanne, now in her early twenties, and in a wheelchair being pushed by the lady she saw a bit earlier. The similarities were not apparent to her in the beginning but the longer Ella looked at her, the more she looked like the brown-haired teenager from her childhood who climbed trees despite Madame's scoldings, snuck her treats from the kitchen after dinner, and played chase with her through the fields. She still had the same intrepid look in her green eyes and the same small scar on her chin from when she ran into a fence by accident. Ella smiled and walked up to her, leaning down to hug her.

"You don't know how wonderful it is to see you! Though, I have to ask, whatever happened to you?" She gestured vaguely at her wheelchair.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll talk plenty about that later." She turned her head behind her. "Miriam, would you be a dear and put the kettle on?"

"Of course."

As the lady, Miriam, walked off, Jeanne led Ella down a corridor to what looked like the living room where she took a seat on one of the red loungers. Outside, the skies began to pour down. Raindrops streamed down the windows as she passed them.

"Ella, how have you been? What have you been up to in the past, say, four, five years?"

"Oh, well, I work at the royal palace now. I mostly clean the place, but I tend to the gardens too."

"Really!" Jeanne leaned forward. "The royal palace? I've always dreamed of going there. What's it like?"

"It's very grand, as you'd expect, with so much history too! I've never seen any place more fascinating."

"Huh," Jeanne leaned back. "Ella at the royal palace. Never thought I'd see the day. You were just a little girl when I last saw you. Then again, I never thought I'd be living in a shophouse with Miriam either."

"Oh? A shophouse?"

Jeanne pointed towards the ceiling.

"Everything's upstairs. She keeps an antique shop — or it keeps her."

Jeanne chuckled and rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

"Always busy, my dear Miriam. But I'd never keep her away from what she loves to do."

"Handling antiques is not everything I love to do," Miriam said, returning with a tray, atop of which two plates were stacked high with brownies and scones. After she set the tray onto the table, she sat in a chair beside Jeanne, placing a hand over hers on the arm of the wheelchair. What a hide-bound pair they seemed, here, in this warm room — red, white, and impersonal with perhaps centuries of sun streaming in from the high windows. It made her think of half-past-four at the palace, and the table drawn before the library fire. The door would fling open, punctual to the minute, and the performance, never-varying, of the laying of the tea, the silver tray, the kettle, the snowy cloth.

"I was just about to tell Ella about the incident," said Jeanne to Miriam, then she turned to speak to Ella. "It's a long story. Happened barely a year after I was adopted, actually. There was a terrible car accident, you see. It put my mother in a coma and it put me in this wheelchair."

Ella's hand flew to her mouth as she gasped.

"I'm so sorry."

"No, no, don't be. Her neighbour offered to take care of me as my mother recovered." She leaned towards the lady to her right. "And here we are. I suppose I would have never gotten so close to Miriam otherwise."

"What a world we live in," Miriam said smilingly, which made Jeanne chuckle.

"Where's your mother now?"

"In the hospital. She woke up a few months ago. I've been visiting her ever since. She was quite shocked to learn that so many years had passed."

"I can imagine."

“Strange as it may seem, before that moment, I still hoped for the best, even though the best, like an interesting piece of mail, so rarely arrives, and even when it does it can be lost so easily.” Jeanne continued, sighing as she recalled her earlier days but then giving a sad smile. "I was so lucky to have had Miriam with me then, and now even. She is my everything."

As Ella watched the two smiling fondly at one another, her heart began to ache terribly. She did not understand why at first but then it slowly dawned on her. This peace, this domestic life, it reminded her of her parents and the way the two of them used to sit side-by-side on the balcony, two slices of bread-and-butter each, and China tea. Looking at Jeanne and Miriam, at that moment, Ella thought about being placid, how quiet and comfortable it sounded, someone with knitting on her lap, with calm unruffled brows. Someone who was never anxious, never tortured by doubt and indecision, someone who never stood as she did, hopeful, eager, frightened, sitting with restless hands, uncertain which way to go, what star to follow.

Somewhere in the house, she heard the muffled shrill of a teakettle.

"Be right back." Miriam got up once again.

"Oh, Ella, I have something to show you. Wait here." Jeanne went away as well.

Now, alone, she turned her attention to the grand piano in the corner of the room. The orphanage used to have one, and Jeanne used to love playing on it before Madame had to sell it so they would have enough money for food. There was a window beside the piano that had not been closed yet, and the wind was making the lace curtains dance about. She walked up to the window to shut it close before looking out. The rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets, rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. Each gutter and spout babbled unchecked in the busy way of witless things. And she knew that the rain would, in the near future, turn into hail and then into snow. She found herself thinking about the orphanage and how much she loved to watch the rain from her old bedroom window.

_The orphanage..._

She remembered the reason why she had come to visit in the first place: she had to tell Jeanne about what was going to happen to the orphanage before it was too late.

* * *

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE WEEK BEFORE

It had only been a few days after King Maximilian's passing that she was informed of Madame's arrival at the palace's front gates. She had come with urgent matters to discuss, as had been written in the letter to Princess Drizella, who had been ascended to the highest order in the royal palace as per the death of her father. When Ella walked out to greet her, she found Angie there already talking with Madame.

"Have you heard any more about the possible closing?" She heard Angie say as she approached the two.

"Only rumours. But they don't sound good. We can only wait and hope."

"Closing? What is she talking about?" Ella asked.

"Ella." Madame greeted her curtly and the maiden briefly bowed her head. "As I was telling Angelina, I received some bad news this morning in the form of an eviction letter on my desk. The orphanage doesn't have the funds to say open. At this rate, I'm afraid we'll have to close it before spring."

"What?" Ella exclaimed, gasping in disbelief. "But if the orphanage shuts down, then what will happen to the children? And everyone else?"

"I'm not going to let the children become street urchins, of course. I believe we will have to move elsewhere, somewhere less costly, and perhaps start over. It will be difficult, but it is the only option I have."

"And where would you go?"

Madame sighed, her usual austere demeanour suddenly withdrawn. Ella had never seen her mentor so tired before, in the whole nine years that she knew her. Finances had always been a problem for the orphanage, and Madame was the one to bear the weight of it every time.

"I'll have to figure it out. Nevertheless, Ella, Angelina, whenever any of you are able, please pass the news to Jeanne." Madame pulled out a small notebook from her purse and took out a slip of paper from inside, handing it to Ella — on it were some directions and what she assumed was Jeanne's address.

"She deserves to know," Angie nodded.

* * *

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE NEWS

"Here," said Jeanne, producing a small red box and opening it to reveal a silver necklace. "I brought this back for you."

The dove at the end of the chain dangled between them. Ella looked at it, her brow furrowing.

"Oh," she said, suddenly remembering. "I gave it to you," she said after a pause.

"You said it was like a promise," Jeanne reminded her. "Do you remember? _'Let's share it.'_ So now I'm giving it back to you."

She handed the box to Ella and she gazed at it for a moment before closing the box.

"You take it now," said Jeanne, "And the next time I see you, you can give it back."

Ella smiled. "Like a promise."

Then, her smile faltered and cracked as she remembered the bad news, afraid at the thought of what she was about to say. She knew how much the orphanage meant to her; she had spent more than a decade there, after all, and Madame was almost like a mother to her, or the mother she never had anyway.

"Jeanne, I came here today to tell you that... the orphanage is closing down."

* * *

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

DEATH

It was over. 

Packing up.

The nagging worry of departure. 

When shutting drawers and flinging wide wardrobes, or the impersonal shelves of a once furnished orphanage, Ella was aware of sadness, of a sense of loss. The orphanage had been her substitute home for so long, she supposed she would inevitably leave something of herself behind. Nothing material, not a hair-pin on a dressing-table, not an empty bottle of Aspirin tablets, not a handkerchief beneath a pillow, but something indefinable, a moment of her life, a thought, a mood.

_Here_ , she could say, _we have lived, we have been happy_. _This place sheltered us, we spoke, we loved within those walls._ But that was yesterday. Now she had to pass on, and so do the others. They would see it no more, and due to this fact, everyone felt different, changed in some infinitesimal way. As she looked around at all the children's faces, both known and unknown, she realized everyone would never be quite the same again. 

That night, they huddled around the fireplace in the hall one last time, the place that kept everyone warm during winter dinners, during study sessions late into the night, even during the rainy seasons when all Madame wanted was some peace and quiet. Ella wanted to go on sitting there with the others, not talking, not listening to the din, keeping the moment precious for all time because they were peaceful. All of them, they were content and drowsy even as the lights which droned above their heads. In a little while, it would be different, there would come tomorrow, and the next day and another year. And everyone would be changed perhaps, never sitting quite like this again. 

These people were like her family and now they were all going away. 

She watched the faces of the grown-ups; Mrs Murphy, the poet who taught her English, Mr Solomon, who farmed and cooked, Madame, who took care of everything, and many others. Some were sitting in the back and whispering to one another, away from the children, some were leaning on doorways, pinching their brows, and some were checking all the children's luggage, most likely wanting something to do with their restless hands. Nevertheless, they wore the same unreadable expression. She wondered if they were all thinking about how the future stretched away in front of them, unknown, unseen, not perhaps what most of them wanted, not what most of them planned.

_"I wish I could have returned upon better circumstances,"_ Jeanne had said to them when she arrived.

However, that moment then was safe — it could not be touched. There they sat together, all of them, old and new, hand-in-hand, and the past and the future mattered not at all. That moment was secure, a monumental little fragment of time some of them, like Ella, would forever remember, and some of them, like the little ones, would surely forget. She looked at young Pablo in Angie's lap, barely bigger than half of her. For him, today would be just after lunch, quarter-past-three on a haphazard afternoon, like any hour, like any day.

And in a few days, the routine of life will go on, no matter what happened, everyone would continue doing the same things, going through the performance of eating, sleeping, washing. No crisis could break through the crust of habit, after all. And that made every moment that evening a precious thing, having in it the essence of finality. 

That night, Ella slept not but sobbed as she ought to, night obscuring the blurred edges of her memory, then she laid motionless through the sunrise, unthinking, unfeeling. It struck her that life was all memory. All except for the one present moment that went by so quick one could hardly catch it going. And this made her quite disheartened indeed. 

The very next day, the instant that she was free, she returned. Everything and everyone was gone. The Winter wind made itself known to Ella through the cracks. As she stood there, hushed and still, she could swear that the house was not an empty shell but lived and breathed as it had once before. The place was full of abandoned meanings. In the commonplace, she found unexpected themes and intensities. There were shadows and ghosts behind every corner, faint laughter, and the soft pitter-patter of footprints. The place held light and life and love for a few more moments, then extinguished itself altogether with a great “goodbye”, never to return. In a few years, this place would be demolished; a place that once held two, three dozen smiles, and two, three thousand memories. In a few years, this home of hers would be no more than but dust and stone; ruins that are not ruins, but hymns of luminous memory. 

Alas, she realized it was possible to be homesick for a place even while one is there.

* * *

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE THIRD DREAM

Ella had another peculiar dream.

_She laid in bed with her mother as she read her a story. She had missed that memory. Her old bedroom, pearly pink and awfully nostalgic, remained unchanged in her mind despite the years._

_"Once upon a time," her mother began, her voice as sweet as ever. "In a faraway land, there was a girl of unparalleled kindness and sweet temper who lived with her stepmother and two stepsisters. They were very mean to her, her stepmother most of all. She was cold, cruel, and jealous of the girl's charm and beauty. Together, the three of them made the girl work all day cleaning, sewing, and cooking. The girl was miserable. Nevertheless, she still tried her best to make them happy..."_

_Her mother trailed off, her hand frozen on the edge of the page as though she were about to flip it, but decided against it. She closed the book instead, turning to look at her daughter._

_"My Ella," she said, suddenly serious, her blue eyes full of something strange and sad. "Some versions of this story rob you of your autonomy. Trust is a choice. To follow is also a choice. Was yours the right one?"_

_The next thing Ella knew, her mother had disappeared completely, fading away like smoke. She reached out in an effort to make her mother stay but it was all vain._

Then, she woke up, eyes opening with a start. It was still dark outside, and she heard the telltale growls of nearby thunder. At that moment, she experienced the absolute strangest feeling. Tears suddenly welled in her eyes before overflowing, warm tickets of salt running clean paths down her red-tinted cheeks. Ella realized she was just as sad as she was angry. But why? She did not know why she was so angry with her mother. She simply was. Her tears began to sting.

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE HERMIT

How lovely it was to be alone again. 

Everything had become so overwhelming lately, what with the eviction and the coronation happening so close to each other. She could not believe that over a year had passed since she began working for the Royal family.

Ella stood on the edge of the North field. It was a perfect evening: the sun had just set behind the palace orchard in the horizon, and as she stared into the sky, oddly, there seemed to be twice as many stars as usual. Her fingers itched for a quill, wanting to write poetics about the sight. Almost all the azaleas had blossomed then, and the petals lay red and dainty on the moss. The bluebells had not unfurled yet, they made a solid lining along the beaten paths leading to the woods, and the young bracken was shooting up, curling and green. The moss smelt rich and deep, and the bluebells were earthy, bitter. 

She lay down in the long grass beside the bluebells with her hands behind her head — slow, languid, golden with peace. Things were still a little damp from the earlier rain but she did not mind. There were pigeons somewhere in the trees above. For a few moments, everything was serene and the universe seemed to make sense after all. She wondered why it was that places were so much lovelier when one is alone.

She thought, _how commonplace and stupid it would be if I had a friend now, sitting beside me, someone I had known back at school, before the fire, who would say “By the way, I saw old Hilda the other day. You remember her, the one who was so good at tennis. She’s married now, with two children.”_

And the bluebells beside them unnoticed, and the pigeons overhead unheard. She decided she did not want anyone with her. Not even Angie or Jeanne. If they had been there she would not have been lying as she was now, humming a tune, her eyes shut. She would have been watching them, watching their eyes, their expressions. Wondering if they liked the scene or if they were bored. Wondering what they were thinking. Now she could relax, and none of these things mattered. 

How lovely it was to be alone again. 

* * *

CHAPTER NINETEEN

JUDGEMENT

The smell of good bread baking, like the sound of lightly flowing water, was indescribable in its evocation of innocence and delight. Ella watched as the chefs worked their magic. On the table, the blandishments of the sugar flowers made the white cake placed there much more inviting. As usual, there was a piece of parchment by the door with a menu scribbled on it by the pantler. Out of curiosity, she decided to take a look at the dinner planned for that night:

_\- Linguini with mushrooms and dark spinach_

_\- Roasted parsnips, potatoes, and pumpkins_

_\- Slices of pickled beetroot sandwiching goat cheese and walnuts_

_\- Two slices of toast with fresh ricotta, serve with a few cherry tomatoes_

_\- Winter soup with lentils and swede_

“We need to be making pastries after this," Angie said as she walked up to the maiden standing by the kitchen doorframe. _Right, for the coronation,_ she reminded herself, _as the Majordomo said._ Her shoulders slumped. The two of them took out all the wine glasses the palace had stored in the cabinets and pantry. She grabbed a clean cloth.

"I don't think we'll be seeing much of the ball, to be honest," Angie said with a wry smile as if Ella did not already know.

"Oh, well. What's a royal ball?” she said, cleaning and drying a glass, and shrugging.

“After all, I suppose it would be frightfully dull, and boring, and—and completely…” She sighed, putting the glass down amongst others on the counter.

“…Completely wonderful."

_How I wish I could be there._

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE MAGICIAN

It was quite stupid, looking back. She had to admit, she had not the faintest idea how to get the pastries off the brick fireplace once they were done. But everyone looked so busy, she did not want to bother anyone by requesting assistance, not to mention looking like a layperson. However, if she had just asked for some help, maybe she would not be caught in these circumstances then, sitting useless on her bed as Angie bandaged her badly burnt hand.

"Truly," said Angie, "Look at you. If you hide your ignorance, no one will hit you and you'll never learn."

Ella nodded in apology, flustered. "What do I do now?"

"Well," Angie sighed, "I'll have to talk to Matthieu. At this rate, though, I am absolutely not letting you do any more duties. Just stay here."

"What? Below stairs?"

"Yes, idle staff aren't supposed to roam around, especially at a time like this with the coronation just about to start."

Ella wanted to argue, but she knew Angie was right. If she were to get caught by their Majordomo Matthieu or even one of the staff above stairs, not to mention any guest at all, she would be in irreversible trouble. Thus, she held her tongue and sat there feeling despondent as she watched Angie walk out of the room.

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE WISH

Ella waited as long as she could, pacing until she realized she was wearing a hole in the carpet. She did not know why it was so important to her that she be at the royal ball at that moment — it was like her mind had split into two, her first self banging on the door of her second self, yelling at her to get to that coronation. She had the weird feeling of someone describing their desire to attend the ball so vividly and so intensely to her that she was unconsciously feeling that desire too. It felt very strange indeed. Regardless, she was no noble, and she could not go in looking the way she looked. Where would she get a fanciful dress like those other nobles anyway? She experienced an intrusive thought. It was her other self again, telling her something — something about her mother. Was her mother listening? If that was the case, maybe Ella could...

_No,_ she thought, _I couldn't. It would be too selfish of me._ But she had never yearned for anything so strongly before.

Ella knelt, hands clasped. She knew her mother was listening. _Maybe if I wish for something selfless, something not too vast, perhaps it will come true without too high a cost._ She thought carefully and then said, "I wish to have a dress — a noble's dress — so that I shall finally be able to attend the royal ball. A dress; that is all I desire."

She waited. Nothing happened.

She waited a bit more. Nothing continued to happen.

She sighed and began to stand up, embarrassed as to why she thought it would work in the first place.

"This isn't a fairytale," she said to herself.

All of a sudden, her staff's attire began to glow.

* * *


	2. The Second Act — Through Their Eyes

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

EVERY ENCOMPASSED ESCAPE

There were few things that put Anastasia more at ease than being by her lonesome in the library. In the library she felt better, words she could trust and look at till she understood them, they could not change halfway through a sentence like people, so it was easier to spot a lie. And with the life she had been born into, there was bound to be lies aplenty. Books, unlike most people, were frank and obliging.

Although she had her fingers under the page to flip it, she found herself staring blankly upon the book in her lap, unable to stop thinking about the other day when she attended another one of her uncle's events, she had been to so many she had forgotten the specifics but she did remember him talking her down like he always did. And she had wanted to yank off her gloves and slap him straight across his putrid face.

_"_ _Ah!"_ She wanted to exclaim, _“How right you were to tell me to marry respectably; to have a solid position; to live in decorous fear of the world and one’s husband. To command the envy of the poor and the good opinion of the rich. Yes, you have practised what you preach!"_

But she nodded her head instead and smiled. Because why would one want to be happy when one could simply fit in? Unfortunately, due to several arduous experiences in her early childhood, she knew she could not just "get up and join the circle of people walking and talking", no matter how lovely it sounded. She wondered how many risk-averse nobles there were in the world who suffered, and continued to suffer, because they could not break out from their web of shyness and reserve, and in their blindness and folly built up a great distorted wall in front of them that hid the truth of being nobility.

And in that lied the fallacy of her existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments. Hence, when she found herself wanting everything, it was because she was dangerously close to wanting nothing. She winced at the thought of it. It made her tremble to think back; she remembered exactly how she thought life would be. And now everything was so different. It felt like she had failed somewhere. It was true ― she took too much for granted; she trusted fate, back then.

But then again, books are, after all, written by people so not all books were frank and obliging either.

For example, when Claudia Gray wrote, _"When we're in pain, people are too quick to say, 'Get over it, move on, it's not that bad.' But we don't get over grief by denying it. We have to feel it. We have to give it its due. Something that means doing the exact opposite of 'moving on.' We have to dive down to the very depths of our sorrow, relive every terrible moment, and endure the torture of asking what could have been — and what will now be. We have to bleed out before our hearts can start beating again."_

And then Aldous Huxley wrote, _"_ _It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them...When it comes to dying even. Nothing ponderous, or portentous, or emphatic..._ _Just the fact of dying and the fact of the clear light. So throw away your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That’s why you must walk so lightly."_

And Anastasia had read them and reread them both and then had her head all at sea. It was difficult ― step softly or hoof it all? Which path could she take to save her in a way that mattered? Just then, Anastasia felt the distinct feeling of someone watching her from somewhere in the library, and she heard the faintest clicks of a heel on the wood. She looked up to barely catch a glimpse of what appeared to be a wisp of blonde hair and a person disappearing behind the shelves.

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

WHERE MOTHER AND FATHER HAD GONE

Drizella stood before the doors of the throne room, on the horns of a dilemma. Her hand was frozen on the doorknob. On any other day, when she opened those doors, she would see her father inside most likely talking with his consociates, or reading and writing some legislation. The sight of her father on the throne was something she had grown fond of seeing. But that day was not just any other day.

More and more she found that life was a series of disappearances followed usually but not always by reappearances; you disappear from your morning self and reappear as your afternoon self; you disappear from feeling good and reappear feeling bad. And people, even face to face and clasped in each other's arms, disappear from each other. Grief was a difficult colour. One could think of it this way: imagine a sea voyage. It is late, so much so that it is lost on you just what time it is. You have drawn the boat up on the shingle for the night. The water is barely luminous, then someone points into the gloom. On the far hill, they are burning crofts. And the rain comes down like silken strings, softly, to preserve the sanctity of desecration. You stand watching the reflections tremble upon the water. Everything is hazy. Everything is still. It's that sort of colour.

She knew it was going to happen. Ever since her mother passed, she had started to prepare herself. For nine years, she prepared. Now, she knew that no amount of preparing would ever be enough. It was a fact that everyone's time on earth was limited and that eventually, everyone would end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. Yet, she was taken by surprise that morning when she entered her father's bedroom and realized what was happening. And there that colour was again. It was like walking up the stairs in the dark, and her thinking there was one more stair than there actually was. Her foot had fallen down, through the air, and there had been a sickly moment of dark surprise as she tried to re-adjust the way she thought of things.

She felt so awfully old and worn, tattered even, and yet so young and peart all at once, raw as a wound. She rubbed her temple as her migraine worsened. Even in her mind, she still saw that colour. There was only a glimpse of it in the beginning. Now, it was everywhere.

Tomorrow, she will have to be there for her father's will-reading, and they will say out his last words, but not all of it, just the part that mattered to the kingdom. They will simply say, _"I know wholeheartedly that the future of the people is in good hands. May this kingdom thrive forevermore."_ They will not say, _"Take care of the people and the people will take care of you. Do good, always. And make your mother and me proud. I love you, all of you. And I will always be with you."_

After he had said this, he took her hand, and Kit's and Anastasia's, and smiled wearily, another tear falling down his cheek. Then, with all his energy spent, he laid there with his eyes closed for a while. The room only held the sounds of her father's laboured breaths. Eventually, his smile folded over itself and faded away.

There was a crash like the falling parts of a dream fashioned out of warped glass, mirrors, and crystal prisms. A deeper cold than any winter overtook her. It spread down her spine, leaving her frostbitten and numb. The tears came so fast to Drizella's eyes that the damp sleeve of her peignoir no longer served to dry them. Turning, she thrust her face into the bend of her father's arm, and she went on crying there, not caring to dry her face anymore. The tears seemed to dissolve the blocks of ice in her throat. She felt the frozen stillness melt down through the inside of her, dripping shards of ice that vanished in a puddle on the stained floor.

She pushed open the doors and looked onward. It struck her full force that she would never see her father sitting on that throne ever again.

That night, she laid in bed. It was pitch black outside her window. A few meadows over, there would be a creek, and then it would be the forest. She closed her eyes and imagined herself standing in there, in the fairy wood, at that time of night; between the dead things in the earth and the dead things in the sky. The woods were difficult, and different from the gardens. As a little girl, standing amidst the towering trees, she adored the green grass, with its terror beneath, stopping here and there to fill her arms with the white and yellow flowers, exclaiming to her mother about their dearness. Looking back, Drizella thought about those flowers she had grown so used to plucking, with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling, and their eagerness to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they were nothing, forever. 

Her mother loved many things, unabashedly, ardently. She loved the creatures of the forest, foxes most of all. She used to paint murals with foxes meandering in meadows or curled up in a burrow somewhere. Before she got sick, she painted angels and cherubs on Drizella's bedroom ceiling at her daughter's request, and Drizella spent hours as a young girl gazing affectionately at her winged companions playing amongst the stars and lounging on the clouds, admiring every beautiful detail with awe. She vowed to her mother that she would never let anything happen to the mural for as long as she lived.

However, there was one artwork which made her heart ache more than that one did. It was a small painting, barely bigger than a piece of parchment, of a lone tulip shell on the sand as a wave seemed to be about to wash over it. It resided in her mother's office, just the way her mother left it, having never been taken off its easel. She was there when her mother started it, telling her how good it already looked no matter how many times her mother laughed and said it was still unfinished. She could hear her now, saying, _"Once I'm done, maybe we could hang it in the throne room. What do you think?"_

It had been sometime in the evening. Drizella had been sitting in the stool, where her mother always sat, and thinking about how the sky could maybe use more touches of pink, when one of the servants rushed in to tell her the Queen had collapsed.

At that moment — the moment of realization that life as she had been living it would have to end — Drizella felt devastation unlike any she had ever known. In the weeks that followed, the barrenness was indescribable. The emptiness that had opened up in her seemed to stretch on forever. She could see no end to it, could find no source of comfort in it, could not imagine any way out.

Her mother never finished that painting in the end. 

She listened hard into the night, and wished she could crawl through the forests to see what the foxes saw. She used to think the years would go by in order, that you get older one year at a time. But it was not like that. Those kinds of things happen overnight. The night her mother passed, she remembered feeling so taut, like her brain had been stretched and aged. She became, all of a sudden, twenty-four, and no longer fourteen, and she could not remember any of the years in-between.

Dazed in bed, she sought comfort from her darkened ceiling where her mother's mural remained, only to be disappointed by their immense apathy, ever impersonal, even after all these years. The moment her mother's belongings no longer felt like hers, but instead the castle's, that was how her mother really died — in whispers she did not hear, in enactments she did not see. 

They said time would heal all her wounds, but that presumed that the source of her grief was finite which was wrong in so many ways.

_Time does not bring relief,_ she thought, as her hands bunched into fists under her covers. She glowered at the angels who simply stared back, having turned on her the instant her mother passed, their smiles now a show of mockery instead of geniality. She sniffed.

_You all have lied._

That anger; she had felt it at her mother's funeral as well, but whom she was angry with, she could not determine. That fateful day, dressed in her mourning attire, she remembered the way she stood before that open grave — unspeaking, unmoving — and sighed. For what can one do in the face of such monumental loss, but breathe a weary sigh at the fact that one's world is a lot quieter now? In some time, she knew she would have to do it all again.

Her eyes ached with the weight of years of unshed tears. No matter how careful she was, there was always the sense that she had missed something, that strange collapsed feeling under her skin, that fallen heart feeling that she had rushed right through the moments where she should have been paying attention. She thought, _Maybe if I had looked a little closer or listened a little longer, I could have seen the subtle paleness of her skin or heard the telltale rasp in the ends of her sentences._ She could not help but chide herself once again, unremitting in her self-blame. Perhaps it was herself, after all, whom she had been angry with all these years.

It was inevitable. Royal families always grew larger then smaller again in ways everyone knew would happen and yet did not expect. Each choice was a winnowing, and sometimes at nights such as these, she heard all the possibilities creak open and shut like screen doors in the wind, making an almost musical accompaniment to what she knew of love and history. From childhood's hour, she had not been as others were. She had not seen as others saw. And now all she loved, she would have to love alone. 

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN REMEMBERING TO FORGET

When Anastasia lost her mother, she did not lose her all at once; she lost her in pieces over a long time — the way the next time she would see her suddenly stopped coming, and her scent faded from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closets and drawers, and the things in her art studio stopped being moved around anymore.

Perhaps that was why it had taken Anastasia a long time to stop wearing black. From that first day, after her mother's funeral, she wore the night like a mantel of mystery, its colours stolen from crow feathers and obsidian. To that day, she still wore her mother's black choker. And it hurt so much to remember. It felt like losing her mother meant losing the memories themselves, as if the things they had done were less real and important than they had been months before. Like that one summer evening on a stretch of grass, the falling star flashing once in the sky before the sunrise; it hovered between memory and dream. A kiss on the forehead from her mother. A goodbye. Blink, and it was like it had never happened. She could not remember. Why could she not remember?

She had buried everything so deep she no longer remembered there was anything to bury. But her body remembered. Her neurotic states would always remember. Even if she did not. Thus, when she laid in bed at night, memories would slip out from her eyes and onto the pillow. Outside her window, the night was silent, and she watched as raw divinity spilt from the stars, a softness coming from the starlight and filling her to the bone. She reached out to Hermes to carry her message to her mother, but the sky stayed empty, and Orion walked by but ignored her. She was, once again, all alone. She tried hard not to think about her fight with her sister shortly before her father's passing but that was in vain too. Tensions were still high. When their father first fell sick, he had told the three of them, _"Oh, the irony of human experience: we are the highest form of life on earth, yet we are ineffably sad because we know what no other animal knows ― that we must die. And thus, I can say for certain that I've got death inside me. It's just a question of whether or not I can outlive it."_ He had chuckled, trying to make light of it. But it was not the same.

She could see her sister's irate face in her mind then, eyebrows furrowed.

_“_ _Let me alone!”_ she had said.

_“Let you alone?"_ She heard herself say. "We _need not be let alone. We need to be really bothered once in a while. How long is it since you were really bothered? About something important, about something real?”_

And then Anastasia shut up, for she remembered how upset her sister still was about Marcel, their Marcel, despite what she said. Her sister was not like her. Her sister kept remembering. She could not forget. Her heart had no pity for her. 

Apologies are not always easy. Perhaps walking away was not what she should have done but that was what she did anyway, and now it was too late into the night to go knocking at her sister's door to make amends. Of course they would hurt each other. That is the very key condition of coexistence. To become Spring means accepting the risk of Winter. To become presence means accepting the risk of absence, and so on and so forth.

She turned in bed and thought, _"Maybe it will get better tomorrow."_

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR

WHAT THE LONELY TIME IS TELLING YOU

_I have to live for Mother and Father._

That was how she looked at it; to continue, to continue, that was what was necessary. On days like that, she felt that she was turning into Emily Brontë, her lonely life around her like a moor, her ungainly body stumping over the mudflats with a look of transformation that would die whenever she entered the throne room or wore her crown. And in between the neighbour who had recalled Emily coming in from a walk on the moors with her face _“lit up by a divine light”_ and the sister who had said Emily _"never made a friend in her life"_ , was a space where the little raw soul slipped through. It went skimming the deep keel like a storm petrel, out of sight. That little raw soul of hers was, in the end, caught by no one. And her poetry, it seemed, her poetry from beginning to end was concerned with prisons — vaults, cages, bars, curbs, bits, bolts, fetters, locked windows, narrow frames, and aching walls.

_“Why all the fuss?”_ one critic had asked. 

_“She wanted liberty. Well, didn’t she have it? A reasonably satisfactory home life, a most satisfactory dreamlife — why all this beating of wings? What was this cage, invisible to us, which she felt herself to be confined in?”_

_Well,_ Drizella thought _, that's because there are many ways of being held prisoner._ She walked along the tall hedges at the edge of the garden. The bare blue trees and bleached wooden sky of November carved into her with knives of light, something inside reminding her of childhood, and she soon figured out why. It was the light of the stalled time after lunch when clocks ticked and hearts shut and fathers left to go back to work and mothers stood at the window pondering something they never tell. 

_"You remember too much"_ , her sister said to her recently. _"Why hold onto all that?"_

Which was just another way of saying, " _What's the matter with you?"_

And Drizella had said, " _Where can I put it down?"_

Which was just another way of saying, _"Nothing."_

Nothing slowly clotting her arteries. Nothing slowly numbing her soul. She was caught by nothing, saying nothing. Nothingness had become her. 

_And when I am nothing,_ she thought, _they will say surprised, in the way that they are forever surprised, "But there was nothing the matter with her."_

She turned in bed and thought, _"Just how bad will it get tomorrow?"_

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE

HOW THE MIRROR STAYS FOREVER

It was the dawn of her coronation.

Sooner or later in the life of everyone comes a moment of trial. All of us have our particular devil who rides us and torments us, and we must give battle in the end. You cannot live alone on the fantasies you feed to your mind. Eventually, you have to touch your life for real, assess and analyze your habits, understand your character, and try not to hate what you find. All morning Drizella could only think about how in a few hours, it would be her chrysalis and how she would not be herself anymore. Her moment of crisis had come, and she had to face it. Her old fears, her diffidence, her shyness, her hopeless sense of inferiority, had to be conquered then and thrust aside.

She looked straight ahead from where she sat. And there she was, that stranger in the mirror. _Where are all your friends?_ A voice seemed to say, nothing but derision in the back of her brain; that ever-present self, isolated from her own. This made her realize that the way her inner voice spoke was so flawed, so heartbreaking — she never knew the right thing to say, or sound the way she wanted to sound. She had oftentimes found herself stopping mid-sentence because she was too terrified of saying the wrong thing. To her, speaking was a kind of misery, forcing her to quietly suffer as she went about her duties, trying and failing to communicate to other people about what she thought and wanted and felt and believed. 

The night before, she experienced another one of those moments when the walls of her mind grew thin; when nothing was unabsorbed, and she could fancy that she might blow so vast a bubble that the sun might set and rise in it and take the blue of midday and the black of midnight and be cast off and escape. Lying motionless in bed, Drizella, whom loneliness destroyed, let silence fall, drop by drop. 

She remembered her mother telling her one day, " _You and Atlas are one and the same, my dear_ — _cursed to hold a weight you can't bear and still standing. Not because you can, but because you have to."_ That day, she had broken down because she could not play the piano like her mother could. She had felt that inherent shame of beginning, the kind that left her thinking, _Don't look at me while I learn_. For if she could not learn fast and learn well, what good would she be as the future Queen? Her ersatz and silky life had strangled her joy of beginning and learning long ago, and when she was old enough she added her own hands to the neck, terrified of not being half as good as her mother.

All her life she had told herself: _"If I fail now, I should fail forever."_

The feeling of her Lady-in-Waiting’s hands lacing up her corset brought her back to the present. Tension drifted up in all the cracks of her like spring snow. She took a deep breath as she watched herself get dolled up in the mirror for all the kingdom to see later on. Despite the anxieties, she knew she had to suppress them. She believed that if she felt anything, especially before her own subjects, it would derange her, or leave her looking weak; to be seen feeling anything would strip her naked. So she chose to be calm. _Always stay calm,_ her teacher had once told her. To be phlegmatic, she had decided, would be better than to be tempestuous, in any situation.

Outside, the sun flared overhead, signalling the arrival of noon. A few hours passed and the coronation dressing had come and gone, like New Years Day four months earlier, nothing apparently changing. It was still her in the mirror. She still felt unfit to rule. Hours after her father’s death, she was proclaimed Queen by her privy and executive councils but, to that day, it did not sit quite right with her; the title of Queen. Murmurs throughout the palace through the morning:

_"Queen Drizella, here..."_

_"Queen Drizella, thoughts?"_

_"Queen Drizella..."_

_"Queen Drizella..."_

How odd. How abnormal. Something abrasive to the ear. But she knew there was no other choice than to heed her fate.

* * *

CHAPTER SIX

WHICH MASK CUTS WHICH ICE

Nobles did not talk to other nobles the way one would think they would. 

_"How do you do? How are you? How is your wonderful bathroom? Your money? Your dogs and their lives? The weather?"_

This was what Anastasia had been hearing from the guests all morning. _Nobody talks about anything anymore,_ she thought. The Great Hall was starting to fill with people who were not there to talk to each other but there to simply show their presence to the public, so she decided that it was time to stop making the rounds. 

In just an hour, it would be time for her sister's service and she would have to watch the latter take and subscribe an oath to govern their peoples according to the kingdom's respective laws and customs. They had rehearsed the ceremony for weeks, down to the bestowal of the coronet, but the sight of hundreds of nobles made everything feel much more official. It would be another round of an overtly lengthy process, although this time Drizella would have to be anointed with holy oil and presented and invested with her regalia for real. 

When the time came for the crowning ceremony, the air in the throne room seemed heavier than usual but she could not put her finger on why that was. She noticed the way her sister's jaw stayed set the whole way through being anointed, blessed and consecrated by the Archbishop, eyes always dour when she spoke. _Looks like she's thoroughly enjoying herself,_ Anastasia thought, wondering what deeply ruminative, mysterious lament could be brewing in her sister's mind then. Every so often, the clouds would part ways for the sun to fall through the tall arched windows, landing on Drizella's coronet and scattering shining rays throughout the room, making her appear quite ethereal indeed. Anastasia looked on with admiration even as she noticed the slight shake of the orb and sceptres in her sister's gloved hands. _If only Mother and Father could be here to see this,_ she thought, _they would be so proud._ When their eyes met, she flashed her sister a smile of encouragement. _Yes, almost as proud as I am of you._

A few hours and a great many démarches later, the above-stairs staff and the palace's Majordomo Matthieu herded the nobles out to the Great Hall once again where tables had been set up for the social occasion before the ball. Anastasia took the opportunity to slip away to check up on Drizella whom she found, en route to her room, looking at a portrait of their mother. 

"You're supposed to be getting ready for the ball," she said.

"Right…" came the soft reply, though she did not take her eyes off the painting. Anastasia stepped closer and held her hand, looking up at the portrait as well. 

"She looks _stunning…_ and so _capable_..." Drizella's chest rose and fell softly as she sighed.

"She does, doesn't she?" said Anastasia, "Just like you." 

"Capable, huh?" Her sister's rueful smile went away as quickly as it had appeared. "That's the opposite of what I'm feeling right now."

"Well, maybe that's because… you don't see what it is everyone sees in you. It's hard to hear what others are saying when you're stuck listening to your own thoughts all the time, especially if they're lying to you."

Her sister kept quiet in thoughtful silence, and so Anastasia said, "...You know, if she could see you right now, I bet mother would be real proud of you. And father too."

"Really? Proud of what?"

"Your bravery. They'd be proud of the way you look out for our people. The way you do everything to the best of your ability. They'd be proud to have such a great daughter who's going to make a great Queen. What's there not to be proud of?"

"Many things," Drizella's lips drew into a thin line at first, but then she eventually caved in, and her frown melted into a small smile. "But… thanks."

Anastasia placed her hands on the latter's shoulders. "Just… don't be so hard on yourself. You can do this, okay? I believe in you." She smiled in encouragement.

"Right…" Drizella's own smile grew wider as she placed her hands over her sister's.

"Now let's go get you ready for the ball." Anastasia linked her arm through her sister's and led Drizella down the corridor to her room. As they were walking, Anastasia could have sworn that she saw a flurry of blue rush by out the corner of her eye. She glanced downstairs over the railing but whatever, or whoever, it was had disappeared. She felt a strange sense of déjà vu.

* * *

CHAPTER SEVEN

WHO ELSE IF NOT YOU

Anastasia was experiencing something very peculiar indeed. She thought: _Is it possible to be haunted by someone who is still alive?_

The girl whom she was staring surprised at seemed oblivious to Anastasia's presence several feet away. Dressed in striking shades of blue, the fair-haired maiden walked in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies. She was a phantom of delight when she first gleamed upon Anastasia's sight; a lovely apparition sent to be a moment's ornament, so much so that the latter had been struck still. 

At that moment, the girl turned her head, noticing Anastasia at last. And all that was best of what was dark and what was bright met in her aspect and her eyes, getting mellowed into that tender light with which even heaven denied to the gaudiest of days. Although everything else about her seemed drawn from May-time and the cheerful Dawn, her eyes were like stars of Twilight fair.

Suddenly, everything clicked into place. She had seen this girl before, once, many, many years ago.

_That fateful day, she remembered the autumn leaves blowing over the moonlit pavement in such a way as to make the girl who was moving there seem fixed to a sliding walk, letting the motion of the wind and the leaves carry her forward. She was beautiful, glowing softly like an ethereal being under the streetlamp, eyes skyward, and smiling to herself. And the sign of her existence shaped the very heart of the night._

_Anastasia had a thought:_ **_My heavens! What a beauty you are. The angels must be missing you._ **

_However, she lacked the heart to voice it and thus the night remained silent, and the distance between them remained vast and unchanged. Instead, she stepped into her carriage and set off for home._

_Later that same night, she remembered lying down in her bed and staring at the ceiling. The girl's face was there, really quite beautiful in memory; astonishing, in fact. She felt as though she were following a phantom in her mind, whose shadowy form had taken shape at last. The maiden’s features were blurred, her colouring indistinct, the setting of her eyes and the texture of her hair was still uncertain, still to be revealed. Yet she had a beauty that endured, and a smile that was not forgotten. Her eyes seemed to be expecting miracles that Anastasia would be most honoured and willing to perform._

_Oh, the witchery of beautiful eyes,_ she thought. It was something she would never forget.

Anastasia weaved through the nobles and approached her.

"My sincerest greetings, fair maiden," She said. "My name is Princess Anastasia of Fydelia." She curtsied and gave an easy smile before extending her hand.

"Would you be partial to a dance with yours truly?"

"A dance? I'm," The maiden looked a bit hot under her collar when they shook hands. "I'm afraid I don't know how to dance, Your Grace. My deepest apologies."

_She doesn't know how to dance?_ Anastasia wondered. _But every noble should know how to do the Waltz at the very least. Well, no matter._

"No worries at all. I could teach you if you'd like."

The handshake turned a shade more intimate as her palm brushed against the girl's wrist. 

"I suppose you could, then," She said smilingly, following Anastasia into the ballroom.

"Right this way, Lady…?"

"Oh! My name is… Lady Ella of… House Frêne…?"

"It's nice to make your acquaintance, Lady Ella."

_Although I've never heard of House Frêne before…_

She stopped at the edge of the dancing crowd before turning to face Ella, taking both her hands in hers.

"Let's have you put your left hand on my shoulder," she instructed. As Ella did so, Anastasia put her other hand on the girl's waist and began guiding her.

"This is a box step, and it acts as a bridge between all the other steps."

"So far so good…" 

"Now, the next three steps are the reverse, spin, and the twirl. First, I'll lead you into the reverse." Anastasia shifted her weight and stepped forward, prompting Ella to take a stride backwards. Then, when she stepped backwards, Ella took a stride forward. The two of them effortlessly glided into the crowd, following the rhythm of the symphony playing in the background. 

" _Bien fait,"_ Anastasia remarked. 

"I mostly just followed your lead."

"Being able to read your partner is a good thing. The trick is to apply a slight pressure on the other's hand as a cue to move backwards."

She remembered her teacher telling her, _"Ultimately, the Waltz is like a conversation. You and your partner make a connection, responding to each other to make the dance work..."_ And then Anastasia accidentally stepped on his foot with her heel and sprained his big toe.

Ever since she learned how to do a dozen different dances, one for each of the Great Houses in Fydelia, she had never had to teach anyone how to do a formal dance before so that was a nice change of pace. Even though the Fydelian Waltz was more of a courtship dance than anything...

"Here's the spin. Just relax…" She moved so that she was grasping Ella's hands as she began to gently swing the girl around. Ella gasped in surprise at first, then laughed as the room spun them. The lights in the room became one sparking blur, making the laughing girl in the centre pop out like the epitome of poetry in motion. At last, Anastasia steadied her, pulling her back into the box step.

"Oh my," Ella said, "Pardon my saying this, but this feels too fun to be a formal dance. Am I doing this correctly?"

"You're doing it perfectly." The two shared a smile. "Now for the last move, the twirl…"

She twirled Ella so that she was facing away from her, her arms coming around the girl. They swayed together for a moment, and she could feel the warmth of the latter's body against hers. Now that Ella seemed to be getting the hang of it, they danced for real, going through the steps a few more times before finally coming to a stop when the Waltz music started to fade away. When they pulled apart, Anastasia realized that they were at the centre of the ballroom. She cleared her throat, gesturing to Ella to follow her back to the Great Hall, and the two quickly slipped away past the nobles who were starting to take note of the Princess' lady companion.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated. Tell me what you would like to read in Ella's story. Whatever it is, comment below. (And for those of you reading that found their way here through my tumblr, you're welcome to message me there as well.) Much thanks, everyone!


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